The Mannequin’s Gaze

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon when my family and I decided to visit the newly opened Galaxy Mall in our town. The mall was a sprawling maze of gleaming stores and polished floors, filled with the hum of shoppers and the occasional squeal of a child. I was nine years old, tagging along with my parents and older sister as we hunted for a birthday present for our grandmother. The air smelled of popcorn and new carpets, and I was content to wander, my eyes scanning the colorful displays.

After what felt like hours of trailing through clothing racks and jewelry counters, a familiar pressure began to build in my bladder. I tugged at my mother’s sleeve and whispered, ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’ She nodded, and with a sigh, she led me away from the bustling crowd toward the restrooms tucked in a quiet corner of the second floor. As we walked, I couldn’t help but notice that the corridor leading to the restrooms was oddly dim and cold, a sharp contrast to the bright and warm main hall. The walls were lined with life-sized mannequins, each posed in the latest fashion, their glossy, featureless faces staring blankly ahead.

We reached the ladies’ restroom, and my mother gestured for me to go in alone, saying she would wait outside. I hesitated, feeling a flicker of unease, but I didn’t want to seem childish. I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. The room was empty, save for the low hum of the ventilation. The floor was spotless, white tiles gleaming under the fluorescent lights. I chose the last stall, furthest from the entrance, and locked the door. As I did my business, I tried to ignore the faint scratching sound I thought I heard from the other side of the partition. It sounded like fingernails dragging across metal, but I dismissed it as the building’s old pipes.

When I finished and unlocked the door, I froze. There, in the middle of the restroom, stood a mannequin. It was one of those from the corridor, and it was now facing me directly, its blank white face tilted slightly as if examining me. I blinked, and it was gone. A cold sweat prickled on my neck. I rushed to the sink, not daring to look at the mirror, and washed my hands quickly. As I reached for a paper towel, I saw a reflection in the mirror: the mannequin was behind me, its arm outstretched, as if reaching for my shoulder. I spun around, but there was nothing. I tore out of the restroom, nearly crashing into my mother, who looked at me with concern.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. I told her I saw a mannequin inside. She peered into the restroom, but it was empty, with only the flickering light. She shrugged it off, saying I must have imagined it. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. That night, I had trouble sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that blank face, those outstretched arms. I told myself it was just a trick of the light, a childish fear. But for weeks afterward, I avoided any restroom in the mall, and even at home, I would leave the door open a crack and hum to myself to feel safe.

Months later, I heard a news report about the Galaxy Mall. A maintenance worker had found a secret room behind the wall of the second-floor restrooms, filled with old mannequins. They were all missing their arms. The strangest part was that one of the mannequins had a small, weathered pocket watch tucked into its chest cavity. The watch had stopped at precisely the time I had visited that restroom. I still have that watch, but I can’t bring myself to open it. I know that if I do, I might see the same blank face staring back at me from behind the glass.